Best Safety Lies in Fear
by Cordelias-Soliloquy
Summary: Loki cannot decide whether he wants to earn Sif's smile, or her beautiful wrath.


Loki is a collector of fragments, of subtle glances, of hushed conversations not meant for his ears to hear. It is not a tangible thing, but he takes pride in his trove of secrets, stowed safely within him. Loki observes. He observes the way that Sif lets her forced amusement slip, the way she runs her fingers restlessly and compulsively through her dark hair. He notices the life leaving the feasting hall to the drone of the Skald, Bragi's, hoarse voice—the way that Bragi halts in his speech often to wet his throat with mead. Loki decides to make use of his collection.

"But all was not lost," Bragi exclaims. "Charms and songs were sung over Mirmir's head, carried in the High One's arms, the flesh made so it would never decay. The wise Mirmir would forever speak truths and prophecy to Odin."

Loki leans towards Thor, cupping a hand to his brother's ear. He exhales in a sly grin, hisses softly, "this skald possesses no talent, Brother. He is old, and dull enough to send Father into an early Odinsleep. Shall we dismiss him?"

Loki is close enough to Thor so that he can feel the rumble of Thor's quiet, barely suppressed chuckle, and feel a gush of warm breath on his cheek, smell the sweetness of mead. "Loki," Thor scolds lightly, "Bragi is our Father's favorite Skald, and a dutiful citizen of the realm. Do not be so unkind."

"No one is doubting his loyalty to his king," Loki reasons, wrapping one arm around Thor's broad shoulder, one hand clasping his drinking horn, holding it out for a servant to refill. "I am only saying that, on a celebrated occasion such as this—the commencement of our dear Sif as a Shield Maiden of Asgard—that the festivities should be of higher caliber. Do you not agree?"

Thor downs another cup of mead, spilling it down his front. He wipes his beard on his sleeve, sighing in contentment. His skin is wax in the flickering light. Loki bites back a sneer as Thor glances in Sif's direction. "Sif does seem in poor spirits," Thor agrees reluctantly.

"Exactly," Loki states, clasping his hands together. He stands to his feet, hardly making a sound. "Which is why I am taking it upon myself to salvage this feast."

Although he cannot see Thor's face, Loki can hear the confusion in his tone. "I do not know what you are scheming, Loki, but take care that you do not provoke Sif further. She has not yet forgiven you, nor does she trust you."

Loki's smile slides easily into place, a well-worn mask. "Schemes, Brother? That does not sound like me in the slightest."

Sif's hair rests on her shoulders in dark waves, cloaking her face in shadow, but not enough to conceal her somber expression from those with keen eyes. Loki notices. He slides swiftly behind her, his steps silent and sure. "My Lady Sif," Loki murmurs, "you should be rejoicing on this occasion, your triumph. Do you dislike the festivities?"

Sif does not turn to meet his gaze. Her shoulders stiffen. "The All-father was gracious in his arrangements. I have no qualms with the festivities."

Loki exhales softly, leaning down to meet Sif's eyelevel. "I should hate for my last glimpse of your face to be your sullen frown."

"Your presence will earn no smile from me, milord." The words are spoken with a kind of bitter nonchalance that chills the very air around them. Loki is used to receiving the brunt of Sif's anger, her biting words and remarks—and he repays those remarks twice over with his own sharp tongue—but this hostility is different.

"But you will smile for Thor's sake—"

Sif whips around, firelight swimming in her eyes. "Do not speak to me of Thor. Do not speak to me at all. Your words are hateful and full of poison."

Loki bares his teeth, hands pressed to his heart in mock hurt. "How you wound me, Sif. Is that any way to speak to your prince?" Without waiting for a reply, Loki adds slyly, "you did not seem mind in my honeyed words a fortnight ago, when I whispered them into your ear—"

Sif turns from him, seething. "Hold your tongue, Loki, lest the dwarves find some reason to sew your lips shut again."

Loki laughs without humor, corners of his mouth twitching as if he can still feel the tug of those horrible threads—the taste of them. "I merely desire your happiness, Sif. I intend to make this a night you'll not soon forget—one that will carry you through your training with the Valkyries. Remember Asgard fondly, Sif."

Without another moment of hesitation, Loki leaps upon the table, upsetting a few plates and sending golden apples rolling to the floor with wet thuds. There is a collective gasp. A few of the guests stop their murmuring. "I am sincerely sorry to cut short your tale, Bragi," Loki drawls, feigning apology, "but I have a story of my own to tell."

Bragi looks up, an expression of alarm on his wrinkled face. "I—I—"

"It appears the Skald has gone mute. What good is a Skald without his voice? Worry not, Bragi, I shall relieve you at once."

Loki's eyes dart around the room, catching glimpses of faces. Sif's attention is reluctantly his to claim. Thor's look of amusement encourages him to move forward with his plans, as Odin's frown urges the opposite.

"Young Prince," Bragi composes himself, "I have long known you to be a twister of tales, but telling stories requires more than being a skilled liar."

"What, dear Bragi, do you find lacking in me?" Loki inquires, stretching his arms wide, addressing everyone in the room. "You surely do not suggest to find fault in your prince?"

"Loki, let the man be," Balder sighs.

Loki continues as if he has not heard his brother's demand. "Well, Bragi?"

"My apologies, milord, but you lack the experience to tell of battles won and wars fought." Bragi finally states without falter. He takes a drink from his goblet, "you have never—"

Before the words can leave Bragi's mouth, Loki flicks his wrist. It is a gentle movement, presumably unseen by all, but it is enough of a movement to end Bragi's speech with sorcery. At Loki's command, the liquid rises up from the goblet as Bragi drinks, causing him to choke. The old man coughs and sputters for a while, unable to speak, and he is eventually escorted away by guards, probably to the healing room.

"What he was saying," Loki smirks, "I suppose we will never know. I am sure it was only the kindest of remarks." He laughs. "Poor Bragi cannot hold his drink, I suppose. He turned as blue in the face as a Jotunn."

This comment does produce several chuckles from the crowd. Frigga, however, stands to her feet and exits the room, her long gown of golden thread trailing behind her. Loki ignores the pang of something akin to regret that rises in his chest.

"Do make haste with your tale, Loki," Volstagg bellows gleefully, "before we all fall into a food-induced stupor."

"Aye," echoes Fandral. "Tell the one where we stormed the mountains of Vaneheim in search of monstrous trolls."

Loki smiles, crosses his arms. He pivots on the table. "I do have a tale in mind. It involves every single one of you. Though, as to the true identity of the persons involved, I shall leave _that_ to your imaginations.

"Indeed, I have a shocking tale of one so loved by all of Asgard. A tenderhearted one is he, so perfect in every way—or, at least, that is what some fools believe him to be. But not even the most cherished of all the gods can trick my watchful eye—for I have seen him with the Queen of Nornheim, Karnilla herself. He is not so pure as everyone believes him to be. So enraptured is Karnilla, by his beauty, by his goodness—"

"You are a treacherous one, Loki."

Loki does not flinch when Balder bolts upright. His sneer remains intact. "How mightily you blush, Balder. I was not going to mention your name, but it seems I do not have to. You give yourself away.

"My game has relived itself," Loki chortles, gesturing to the uncomfortable crowd below him. "Just how good is your bluff? We shall all see."

He strides down the length of the table, pausing occasionally to glance at the fire lit faces around him. Sif's frown has grown deeper. A heat ignites in his chest, spreading to his face, twisting his gut with anger. "We all know him to be a lover of women, ale, and women," Loki begins with a wink. "He is dashing, skilled with a sword when sober—"

Thor and Volstagg, on either side of Fandral, elbow him in the ribs simultaneously. "No need to continue, Loki," Fandral chimes in, smirking. "We all know of whom you speak."

Loki grins. "We know him as a breaker of hearts, and a warmer of many beds. But, just the other day, I saw him jilted—rejected by a common concubine. She would not lie with him, for her standards were not so low as that."

There is an eruption of howling laughter. Loki basks in the sound of it, searching for one laugh in particular. _There it is_, Loki thinks, _Lady Sif's smile. _However fleeting the smile may be, it brings Loki satisfaction.

"You should have bluffed, my friend," Loki shrugs at Fandral's embarrassment.

"Loki, end this game," Thor chuckles. "Have you not tormented our friends enough?"

"Pleading for me to quit, Brother? But what could the mighty, golden God of Thunder have to fear?" Loki leans towards Thor, lowering his voice somewhat, though not enough to where no one else can hear him. "What secrets shall I spill, Thor? Your failures—your stupidity—or your conquests? Shall I speak of your dear Amora, your Lorelei, your _Sif._" Loki flicks his gaze to Sif. "Or, should I skip Thor, and tell of your love for the wicked Loki?"

"Turn your game on yourself, Loki, if you are brave enough to do so. Tell us of your jealousy—your cruelty—your heart of ice. Tell us of hiding in shadow—of running from battle. Tell of your envy—of how you cut my golden hair in the night like a coward—of how you wept like a lost child when facing your punishment for the wicked act." Sif's voice slices through the air, as swift and sharp as the blade she carries. Silence follows.

Sif rises hurriedly, nearly felling the table in her haste, and takes long, deliberate strides from the hall. Before Thor can react, Loki jumps down from his perch and follows after her. Sif is quick, but Loki is quicker.

Halfway down a corridor of great open windows that reach to the towering ceiling, Loki catches her. Sif wrenches her arm from his grasp. She turns from him, to the balcony. The masses of billowing curtains shield her from his sight with every breeze.

"You insulted me—humiliated me—-" Loki hisses. "I was merely speaking in jest, Sif—"

"Your jests are spiteful. Your mischief is cruel as of late. I loved you once, I think, but you grow more embittered by the day, and I cannot stand you—"

"You grow to despise me more day by day, Lady Sif. I have done nothing to merit that. Remember it was _you_ who requested we no longer meet in secret. It was _you_ who only ever had eyes for Thor."

Sif reels to face him, eyes like daggers. "No, Loki."

"How am I wrong? Did you not choose Thor over me? Did you not spend hours with him—did you not love him—did you not plant kisses on his lips like you used to do mine?" Loki questions, breathless. "Fear not, Sif. I would not return to your arms now. I would not sully myself with Thor's lover."

Loki cannot help but reel back in shock as Sif strikes him across the face. He stares blankly, fingers stroking the bruised flesh curiously. He smiles.

"You are blinded by your jealousy. That poison inside your heart is what urged you to cut my hair from my scalp in a rage. It is what made me repulsed by you—and what made me go to Thor for companionship. Our kinship, whatever it might have blossomed into, was ruined out of fear by your hands alone. You only ever think of Thor."

Loki is silent. He reaches out, capturing a strand of Sif's raven hair between his thumb and forefinger. "I think it suits you."

Sif glares. "I shall take my leave, milord. I need rest for my journey tomorrow."

"I have another story to tell, Lady Sif. One of a second son, lesser liked by all but one, fated to fail. The maiden's golden locks shorn, the Sly One weaved the night into her hair. Her sunlight hair makes her the golden son's, they had said, two beings so alike in strength and beauty. The Sly One had heard these claims. The maiden did not share his nature, but she would match his darkness another way. Only then, thought he, could the lady be his."

Loki collects the fragment of Sif's flickering emotions—her hatered, her understanding, her longing. He collects them, only to lock them away, never to be revisited. They lie with the fragments of kisses—of whispers—of words spoken and tales told without words.


End file.
